


Undenied

by Beanwhile



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by Music, M/M, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aredian is a writer who goes to a dirty little café to edit his work. One morning a young artist sits across him and insists on drawing him for practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undenied

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU fic for [Merlinshipsfest](http://merlinshipsfest.tumblr.com), inspired by Portishead's song [Undenied](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Lj4BKFGhsY).  
> Update: Beta'd by the one and only [Himi](hereticality.tumblr.com), and updated. Thank you, babe <3

                It starts with the artist.

                The unpleasant noise of wood dragging over floor breaks his fragile concentration. Someone takes the seat across him at the table and flops something on the smooth, grimy surface. In his peripheral vision he sees stacked thick paper bound with a black spiral. A sketchbook. His lips purse in mild annoyance – the café was empty when he came in, surely there are plenty of empty tables? His hopes to edit in peace crumble.

                "Hey."

                "I don't do petitions," Aredian answers out of habit. He reaches for his coffee to kill the conversation before it has even begun. The aroma tickles his nose and he inhales, indulging his senses. The dark liquid is hot and bitter on his tongue, and taste and smell intertwine. It's refreshing and soothing at the same time. He likes his morning coffee. He doesn't want someone to spoil it for him. There is a very audible clunk from his mug when he puts it back. On the table in front of him his first draft makes little sense. He realizes he's reading without taking in a single word, and has to go back and reread the entire paragraph.

                "No- huh? No!" His table mate is insistent. The man laughs - it's a man, Aredian thinks. It's a voice that he finds hard to describe, but it's not unpleasant. Perhaps something akin to “silvery”. He knows how to describe women's voices but men are still a mystery to him. He scolds himself for getting distracted, and ignores his line of thought to continue editing.

                "I wanna draw you, that alright?"

                Aredian looks up now. Across the table, a young man is smiling while rummaging through a pencil case. There is already an eraser next to the sketchbook. The stranger looks like he hasn't shaved for at least three days. His eyes are black and lively, but there are dark circles beneath them. His nose is long, and his hair is long as well, a common wavy brown long enough to touch his shoulders. A few silvery hairs shine in the cold morning light. Aredian wants to adjust his glasses and take a closer look. "I won't pay you," he says instead.

                The stranger laughs. His lips are a peculiar shade of red. Aredian can't come up with a name for that colour. If it were up to him he would assume that the artist either chews his lips too much, or has recently been in a fight. He hasn't licked off all the blood from his lips and it has stayed there and saturated the flesh. They look a bit chapped. Aredian licks his own.

                "I don't need you to pay me," the stranger shrugs. He doesn't sound one bit perturbed by Aredian's coldness and unwillingness to cooperate. He's already laying lines and curves on the paper. Aredian is taken aback by the man's insolence. "It's for practice." The artist glimpses at Aredian and looks back down to the few seemingly random lines on the sheet. He twirls his pencil between his fingers.

                "Why would you draw me?" Aredian insists. At this point he's arguing for the mere sake of doing so. It's evident that the artist won't go away until he's satisfied. Aredian has a gift for driving away people who bother him or such that he plainly doesn't like, but all his efforts are lost on the young artist. How young is he actually? Not that young, it seems – perhaps early or mid-thirties. This doesn't make Aredian less upset. His morning is rather ruined now, and the tranquillity of solitude has fled him.

                For the first time the artist raises his head to meet Aredian's gaze. "You're handsome," he says simply, and smiles. He keeps his eyes on Aredian for a second or two, and then his gaze falls back to his sheet again.

                Aredian has no idea how to react. He is not even sure how he feels about it. He doesn't remember ever being called handsome. No one has ever approached him because he's handsome, especially not in the last few years. He's... old; he's aware of that but doesn't think about it too much. He's a writer; it doesn't matter what he looks like. His words matter, and the way he lines them up, and then deletes and adds and rearranges until everything is exactly what he needs it to be. He doesn't want his photo on the back of his books. Young men at least half his age do not approach him because he's handsome. Much less... artists. The feeling is uncanny. He dares not enjoy it, lest he would genuinely like it.

                "I won't stay still," he adds out of stubbornness.

                The handsome artist simply hums and nods to his sketch. Well, he's been warned. Aredian doesn't want to look at the sheet, and so he looks back at his draft. The page is almost lacking in red; that's never a good sign for him. He starts anew, twirling the red pen in his fingers while reading.

                He is soon engulfed by the words in front of him, and almost forgets about the artist. He is dimly aware there is another human being close to him, warm and breathing and living in the cold late winter morning, but it ends there. There is the occasional rustling when he turns the page, or a huff of breath when the artist gently blows the shavings from the sheet after he has used his eraser. If it's serious work Aredian can tolerate it.

                The sunlight slowly washing over their table is the only sign that time hasn't stopped for them.

                He doesn't know how much time has passed when the handsome artist puts his pencil down. He opens his pencil case again and starts putting away his tools. Aredian lifts his head. The artist looks up as well and gives him a lovely, charming smile. Aredian is upset that nothing other than “adorable” comes to mind to describe the artist’s dimples. Something in his stomach turns and twists; it's an uncanny feeling. His whole morning feels uncanny. "I'm done," the artist announces. "Do you want to see it?"

                Aredian ponders upon it for a bit. "No," he decides in the end. He's not sure why, but he really doesn't. There's a pang of curiosity somewhere in him, but it's easy enough to ignore.

The artist's smile brightens. "Fair enough." Hhe nods and closes his sketchbook. The drawing is hidden now. Aredian reads "Cenred" carved on the cover of the sketchbook before he can make himself look away; it's none of his business after all. They're never going to meet again anyway.

                The artist puts on a battered leather jacket and tosses his backpack over his shoulder. He pushes away his chair and stands up; somehow the scrape of wood is tolerable this time. After he's gone Aredian will peacefully go back to editing. The artist stands next to him. When he doesn’t move Aredian looks up to see what the matter is.

                Two fingers lift his chin up. He opens his mouth in surprise, and then a pair of thin lips cover his. Time suddenly stops and his mind is a whirlwind of words, none of which even remotely apply to what he is feeling. The artist's lips are actually smooth, and warm; the scruff of his moustache tickles the soft skin just above Aredian's upper lip. He catches a whiff of cheap cologne and the lips that are kissing him taste of tea and toast. Aredian has no idea why he closes his eyes. He can feel the rest of Cenred’s fingers joining the first two under his chin. They trace his jawline and cup the side of his face; he cannot help himself and leans his head in the warmth of the artist's hand.

                "Thank you," the artist whispers. He straightens his back and rises to his full height again. As he goes away his fingertips caress Aredian's cheek and lips and then they're gone as well, leaving Aredian cold and... still. He is aware that a fleeting feeling has passed through him, but it's been too gentle, too feeble and too fast for him to catch and pin down with words. He opens his eyes and feels as bitter as his cold coffee.

                He rummages through his coat pockets for his notebook. He flips it until he finds a clean page. When his pen touches he paper he stops and ponders. Beginnings are hard for him.

                “It ends with a kiss.”

                It’s not great, but it will do. The red of his pen against the yellow of cheap recycled paper reminds him of Cenred’s lips.


End file.
